Hey, folks. Do you remember saharasnow? She used to write some of the best aulu fanfic. It was a delight to watch her increasing mastery of English (she's in Japan Singapore) as she churned out moody, dreamy vignettes. She was a fair artist, icon-maker (see this entry's userpic), and enjoys gothy cosplay, photoshoots, dolls.

She's had a rough couple years with her foot shattering and failing to heal properly, job hell and general troubles. She just passed a birthday alone and sad, feeling like the world doesn't know she exists.

I haven't said anything, because I didn't know what to say.But I wanna say, do something. Help someone who hurts.

We can't help her with RL crap. But maybe we can bring a little cheer to a gifted and beautiful person."It's worth trying," as Braska said.

So, I invite folks on my Flist to:--Browse saharasnow's LJ for photos, Final Fantasy fanfic, icons, and/or dolls and leave a comment.--Reply here with a comment, beautiful image, icons, LOLcats, link to a funny video, drabble (she likes X, X-2, VI), or whatever you feel like in replies to this post. --More fanfic posted here on Ficwad (most of the fic on her LJ is flist locked).

After a day or so I'll unlock this post so she can see it, and point her here.

Bikanel's sands were blazing beyond the metal roof, and shade was not much defense.

Lulu had filled Auron's jug twice with icewater today, willing survival. Their clothes were drenched in sweat. They lay side by side, waiting for nightfall. As always, they wasted no words.

No platitudes could promise they would find the others, find Yuna.

Failure was always an option, as they knew too well.

She had walked until the sun claimed her, until she had fallen and rolled to the foot of a dune, until the warrior who never stopped walking had carried her ten more paces before collapsing himself under a sand-pitted metal lean-to.

Auron woke minutes or hours later (had he actually slept?) to feel tiny cold drops on his face, his bare arm where he had flung his coat aside.

Hands clenched in her lap, the pale sorceress sat beside him with head bowed, hair hanging across her face. (Did she ever weep?)

The falling snow that rained around them in a gentle shower was already melting when it reached their skin.

But it was defiance. The defiance that kept the dead among the living.

Auron sat, stood, held out his hand, the one he usually kept tucked in his coat.

The Empire, what she remembers of it, is the chill of steel and the harsh winds off the mountains in winter. Ruthless efficiency was the watchword, not that she had any choice in the matter; the Slave Crown enforced swift compliance and straightforward action.

Locke brings her flowers, tiny purple things stubbornly growing in the cracks of Mt. Koltz. She treasures them, and the feel of his warm, calloused skin on hers when he presses the flowers into her hands.

Most of all she treasures his smile, warm with camaraderie and reassurance.

This is what happens after the story is over. After you turn the last page. After the last word that might have been anything is read and becomes only one. After the back cover says, "There is nothing more."

Covers always lie.

She does not arrive. She was not there, and then she always had been. Time is fluid, without a story telling what happened next. She died old, but she is not old. She is twenty-two. It is the age she always was inside. Even when she was five. Even when she was thirteen. Even when she was twenty-one. Even when she was twenty-four. Even when she was thirty-seven. Even when she was fifty. Even when she was eighty-five. She was always twenty-two.

People are layered here. He can see everything she ever was in her face. Her hair is dark, is streaked gray, is pure white, is long, is short, is loose, is braided. Her face is smooth, is wrinkled, is round, is sharp, is marked with tears, is dry with dust. Her eyes, though, her eyes are forever.

He is not waiting. There is no waiting here. There is no time to wait.

He is thirty. He was always thirty, even though he never was. He too is layered. He is scarred, unmarked, one eye shut, both eyes open, hair greying, hair black, face half-hidden, face open and honest, smiling, crying, angry, calm. He looks as he ever did.

They have not grown apart. How could they, when they have never been apart? Here, outside of the story, they have forgotten nothing, though there is always more to say. There are children, and dreams, and smiles, and friends.